


With a Heave and a Ho

by BourbonNeat



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Episode-centric, Episode: s13e01 Top Gear (UK), Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Hand porn, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:51:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1563626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BourbonNeat/pseuds/BourbonNeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set around the Race to the North. The boys always have special stakes riding on these epic races, but this isn’t quite the way things usually turn out – in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With a Heave and a Ho

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is fiction. It never happened and is not meant to imply anything about the people featured in the story. Complete unreality from a fanciful mind.

“Awwww, I wanted to go on the train.” The disappointment in James’ voice was genuine even if his surprise at the drawing’s outcome was most decidedly not.

Before the race had even been officially scheduled, James had wanted to race in the Tornado. Stoking the fires for eight hours or longer would be arduous work, but just being that close to the beating heart of the engine and working with the mechanics of such a brilliant piece of engineering set his geeky heart aflame and made his inner ten-year-old bounce up and down with glee, and that was really saying something. This being _Top Gear_ , James’ inner ten-year-old was quite the spoiled young lad indeed. But just a few days before filming, Jeremy, every bit as besotted with the Tornado as James, had changed his mind and claimed it.

If he couldn’t race in the Tornado, then James had wanted to ride the Vincent Black Shadow. Richard Hammond certainly wasn’t the only presenter who could claim that gorgeous bike as a childhood hero. Just looking at it was giving James a semi and the sound of the engine, in perfect working condition glory even after all these years, was nigh on crisis inducing. Besides, the bike would be a much better fit for James’ long body. Richard could stick his fingers in his ears and ignore that fact all he wanted, but that didn’t make it any less true. Still, this was a lost cause. Richard had called bags before Andy even finished voicing the idea of using the Black Shadow for the race.

In comparison, the old Jag, stunningly beautiful though it was, just seemed rather boring. In fact James was honestly disappointed when they determined he would drive the Jaguar. He hid it well for the cameras and settled into the well maintained leather anticipating a rather ordinary drive up the A1. But the car had surprised him, proving him wrong in the best possible way.

True, topping out at 126 mph was far from the fastest car in the world these days. His Fiat Panda couldn’t manage it, but the fact was that many basic modern family cars _could_ manage 126 MPH easily and a good bit beyond. Also true, if he were to take it around the track at Dunsfold, the Jag’s vintage steering and handling would seem downright archaic in the corners compared to that of a modern sports car. But here on the gentle undulations of the highway, where even ignoring the speed limit altogether still kept him well within the car’s sweet spot, the Jaguar was a graceful beauty providing a truly magnificent ride, and James started to feel the fizz. Now he was chuffed to bits to be driving the Jag and felt he owed the car a victory by way of apology.

Of course, that wasn’t going to be easy. As the miles sped past, through bustling cities, over rich green hills, past farmland dotted with livestock, and back again, it became clear that this was turning into one of the closest races he, Richard and Jeremy had ever run. At least, it was turning into one of the closest races they had run while being aware of it – usually they were taking such different routes that it was impossible to feel this much in the race, despite the amount of taunting they kept up on their mobiles. But this? Passing Hammond only to be passed by him and then leap frogging ahead again at the next petrol station, with every calculation he ran in his head telling him he really only needed one decent break to catch Clarkson? This was exhilarating, brilliant fun.

Weaving skillfully in and out of traffic as he approached the Scottish border, now far ahead of Richard but still neck and neck with Jeremy, James’ adrenalin kicked in, the familiar feeling racing through his body like lightning, setting every nerve ending tingling, part frantic, part frustration, part completely and utterly alive. With a laugh, James realized that he was cursing at the other drivers, had been for some time in fact. It was cursing in creative James speak, yes, but it was still something he did so rarely, in real life and on _Top Gear_ , that he couldn’t remember them ever including it in a film, at least not when it wasn’t somehow directed at the other two. His blue eyes sparkled impishly when he realized there would be no way to leave it out of the film at this point. The idea of the fans trying to reconcile this with their image of Captain Slow brought a grin to his face that only those who didn’t know him well would say was equally out of character.

By the time James pulled into the drive of the Balmoral Hotel, his heart was pounding out of his chest, but that would never come through on camera. There were no longer any other cars to yell at and his hands stayed nice and steady as he pulled the car around in the direction that the production assistant waiting on the steps kindly indicated and carefully parked it. Attention to detail in all things, even in the middle of a race. He practically caressed the creamy curve of the door as he closed it, breathing a sigh of relief at having arrived. Then the adrenalin kicked back in and he took off for the door of the hotel in a gait that was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike running. James could practically hear Clarkson’s big booming laugh and the piss taking this was sure to garner in the studio or during the film’s voiceover, but he didn’t care. Today, he _wanted_ this.

Contrary to increasingly popular opinion, the outcomes of _Top Gear_ races weren’t scripted. Oh, they’d go back and film additional footage as needed and, yes, certain logistics involved in the setup were always determined ahead of time – the distribution of vehicles in this particular race, for example, for many reasons not the least of which was saving everyone involved from an entire day’s worth of whinging if Jeremy got stuck on a motorcycle again. The races themselves, however, were run in real time and the presenters took them very seriously, with pride, months of mockery and certain special spoils for the victor riding on the line.

No presenter was allowed to know where either of the other two were in a race at any given time unless they told him themselves, so James most certainly should not have known he’d won until he actually reached the hotel bar. Naturally the crew had better information – they had to set up the shots, after all – but they were usually far too cagey to let anything slip. Today, however, James was so high on adrenalin that his senses were firing almost to the point of overload and as soon as he’d cleared the Balmoral’s big revolving door, he picked up on the subtle, nonverbal communication between Iain, the cameramen in his follow car, and Nigel, the director.

Much to their chagrin, James burst into a hearty laugh and began kicking his feet in the beginning steps of his awkwardly endearing, trademark victory dance just as Andy walked in. James half jigged, half walked his way to the bar as the various crew members in his wake fought not to laugh too loudly within range of the cameras. By all rights, they should be hauling him back outside to refilm his entrance without the premature celebration, but Andy waved them off. It sounded as if Jeremy was too close on his heels to risk it. Besides, James’ natural reaction bordered on adorable and, if they decided to use this footage in the final edit, no one in any position to know could possibly say it wouldn’t make good telly.

Reaching his destination, James ignored the crew laughing behind him and glanced up and down the bar for inspiration. Now that he’d won, he was allowed to know his co-presenters’ whereabouts so he could help figure out how to set up the reveal, and he knew that Jeremy was only minutes away, the train having just pulled into the station. He briefly wondered what Jeremy would do because, when it came to having an eye for scenes and situations that make great telly, Jeremy was undoubtedly the king. Of course, James reminded himself, when he got out of his own way, anymore he was pretty good at this himself. He amended his thought to ‘What do I want to do?’ at roughly the same moment that he noticed just how well the incredibly thick pillars flanking the entrance to the bar proper hid most of the corner from view.

James’ face broke out in a broad grin, with more than a hint of mischief twinkling in his eyes, as an idea began to take shape. He ordered two pints from the bartender and motioned Nigel over to make his suggestions.

 

*** * * * ***

“You have permission to say, ‘Oh Cock.’”

Rushing through the revolving doors and into the quiet elegance of the Balmoral’s lobby – the quiet, _empty_ , elegance of the lobby, free of any obvious signs of James or anyone in his follow car – for a few moments, Jeremy actually thought he’d won. He knew that he and James were neck and neck heading into Edinburgh and that his long haired mate would not, under any circumstances, run on camera. Maybe, just maybe… But, no, it was not to be. Striding up to the dark wood of the bar, breathing in hard huffs from his run up the stairs, not unlike the locomotive he’d just exited, Jeremy heard James’ merrily teasing voice deliver those familiar words in an entirely new way, followed by rich laughter. Oh cock, indeed.

“You shouldn’t – ah – you shouldn’t laugh…at a man…who’s come a noble second,” Jeremy managed between wheezes as the backward collapse onto the bar floor that he’d intended to be theatrical unexpectedly became the real thing.

“Jeremy, speak to me.” James’ voice radiated exaggerated concern for humorous effect, but the real thing was definitely in his eyes as he pulled Jeremy gently but firmly into a sitting position and held a beer to his lips.

Beer! Oh heavenly cool liquid coursing down his parched throat. Jeremy couldn’t even taste it over the residue of smoke and soot that even seemed to coat his tongue, but it was still the best beer he’d ever had on the merits of its soothing sensation alone. He took the beer from James’ hand and gulped it down greedily, muttering something about never wanting to see another steam train again.

God but he was knackered. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this beaten up and bone tired. Alright, so he could actually remember – probably the night after his fall in Vietnam or at the end of the endurance race at Silverstone.  Yes, he was definitely feeling that kind of tired and he genuinely did hate losing. Even so, Jeremy was having a hard time keeping the grin off his face because the part of his brain that was always looking at how to set up the next shot, thinking of the next perfectly protracted metaphor, knew just how utterly brilliant this was all going to look on film.

James and Jeremy kept the banter up until Nigel decided they had more than enough footage, at least until Richard arrived, whenever Richard arrived. Mechanical issues with the Vincent and various other calamities had put him considerably behind. James bounced back off of the barstool as soon as the cameras shut off, too twitchy to sit still a moment longer. His nerves were still jangling with a combination of excitement from the race and no small amount of worry over Jeremy. The great bloody oaf had caught his breath some time ago and was laughing and cracking jokes, but still hadn’t moved much from where he sagged against the pillar, a growing soot smudge from his thoroughly caked curls marring the paint on the wood behind his head as he slowly slid lower and lower toward the floor.

“Jaaaames, are you working on your Hammond impression?” Jeremy eventually complained, voice rising in pitch as he worked himself into the rant. “You’re like a bloody pinball, man. Would you – just sit down somewhere. S’making me tired just to look at you.”

With a roll of his eyes, James finally complied – well, it was the man’s third such demand, after all – pressing a glass of water into Jeremy’s hand as he sank down beside him on the floor. He and Andy had been taking turns plying Jeremy with water while bribing him with the eventual promise of another beer. Given the amount of soot remaining on the man’s lips, and Clarkson’s preferences in beer, James was surprised he could even tell the difference between the two.

Jeremy brightened considerably at the close company. “So whose idea was it to put you behind the pillar and hide the camera crew? Yours?” He asked, patting James on the shoulder with a hand looking to linger a lot longer than was strictly friendly.

James nodded yes as he shrugged the hand off and made a show of brushing the soot off his shoulder, pleased to have the built in excuse to shoot Jeremy a warning look. Most of the crew already knew about them – the three of them – on some level, if only because it was almost impossible to keep secrets in such a close knit family. But discretion was still every bit as essential as it was polite, even more so in the public areas of a popular posh hotel.

Jeremy smirked back at James, amused by the man’s predictable reaction, and offered his best attempt at an innocent expression, one he was well aware came altogether too close to sprouting horns to be anywhere near the mark. Winding James up would never cease to amuse him. But he responded to the affirmative nod with a genuine ‘Well done, mate. Brilliant idea.’ and took just as much pleasure in seeing the younger man flush from the praise as he had in his earlier discomfort.

 

*** * * * ***

“That Tornado, what an absolutely astonishing old piece of engineering, James,” Jeremy enthused tiredly, leaning heavily on James as they waited for the lift. “ _You_ would fall in love.  When it comes back through we should see if…well, you should at any rate,” he amended with a hearty laugh. “ _I_ never want to see the inside of the bloody thing again. Noooooo.” He shook his head slowly for emphasis.

Once Richard called to say that the Black Shadow had broken down again, Andy let them go for the evening to rest. At that point Hammond would reach the hotel so late it would be funnier to film him arriving to find the lobby completely deserted and an apparently closed bar, or possibly even to have him stumble on the wedding, the photos for which they’d accidentally crashed. The bride and groom were clearly not only fans but absolutely lovely people and seemed the sort who might appreciate being part of the joke if Andy asked.

James smiled fondly as Jeremy continued babbling tiredly, but tightened the arm he had around his friend’s waist to steady him, any lingering fastidiousness about the state of his formerly pristine white jumper having vanished as soon as he saw the man stand up and try to walk. Usually this was the sort of public touching James avoided like the plague, but there was no one else near the lifts and, besides, with Jeremy looking for all the world like a crippled chimney sweep from a clichéd period movie, no one could possibly infer anything other than concerned friendship from their contact. Indeed, everything remained perfectly platonic right up until the lift doors slid shut.

“Eight hours of backbreaking labor, James. Do you have any idea how I got through it?”

“No Jezza,” James said dryly. “But having worked with you for years, I’m going to guess delegation and a lot of whinging?”

“No, pillock. Mind over matter.” Jeremy paused for several beats until he knew he had James’ full attention, most likely against the man’s better judgment. “I just kept thinking of Richard in those tight leather trousers – looks good as a Power Ranger, he does – and your gorgeous arse bending over the bonnet of that pornographically pretty car.”

Even though he really should have been used to it by now, James flushed and sputtered in surprise, before bringing his voice back under control with effort. “Come on Clarkson,” he said, trying for an almost bored admonishing tone with some success. “Public face for a few more minutes. I’m sure you can manage it.”

“I have my public face on, James,” he said, the smirk on his face clearly audible in his voice. “You’re the one getting all red and flustered.”

“Yes, well…” James’ less than eloquent response, muttered through a curtain of hair, was cut off by the ding of the lift reaching their floor.

“Public face, Slow,” Jeremy leaned down to whisper as the doors began to slide open. “Our rooms are just at the end of the hall. I’m sure you can manage it.”

James smacked the smug git on the shoulder resulting in a palm covered in soot that he that had nowhere to wipe off but his own jeans. Jeremy had started to snicker as soon May’s hand made contact, but he began shaking with laughter over the man’s sour expression as he realized the messy depth of his tactical error, eventually more or less collapsing on his colleague in his mirth. At that point James couldn’t much keep a straight face either and soon his own loud, infectious donkey’s bray of a laugh joined Clarkson’s as he half walked with, half dragged his unruly charge toward their rooms, and soap and hot water, plenty of them.

They were given adjacent rooms which probably put Richard across the hall, though the likelihood of him staying there for any length of time this evening was more or less nil. James was pleased to find that, not only had Iain not managed to snag his room, but some kind soul had already brought their bags up, a treat every bit as rare as the BBC springing for rooms this posh. A short while later, he strode through the open connecting door between his room and Jeremy’s to find that the older man had flopped into the first available chair and made no further progress toward a shower beyond the removal of one heavy boot and a halfhearted attempt at unlacing the other.

“Sloth!” James shook his head as if in disgust, but his smile was fond. “Come on, off with your kit.”

When the only response was Jeremy’s best pathetic face – always endearing but extra heavy on the ridiculous today as the soot made his usual attempt at huge eyes look even more cartoonish – James kept up the steady stream of teasing, but he also sat down on the floor in front of him and finished taking off the man’s boots and socks. It was the same thing Richard would have done in his place because this is what they did, all three of them. Theytook the piss, left each other behind and played ridiculous pranks, and all of that was genuine. But, afterwards, they took care of each other with a deep affection that was every bit as genuine.

“Up,” James tugged Jeremy into a sort of half slump, half stand and began to strip off his boiler suit, words coming in short bursts as he worked. “Off with this and into the shower. Hot water. You’ll feel better. I’ll order some food…”

When Jeremy finally spoke, his voice was a deep smoky rumble. “I wasn’t winding you up in the lift, you know…well, I wasn’t _just_ winding you up. You did – do look edible.”

James flushed with embarrassment but also with pleasure. “And you...well you look a bit like a panda in reverse, actually. But I still would,” he said warmly. “Will, even. Ugh, Jez!” He laughed, dodging soot covered lips. “ _After_ you shower, naturally. And after Hammond gets here.”

“You do know we’ll be hours yet waiting for Hammond.” His words were more of a factual statement than an attempt at wheedling James into bed early, but his eyebrows made it clear he wasn’t exactly opposed to the idea either.

James just laughed. “And if you hurry you just might have all of this soot off by then.”

“After Richard does get here, have you decided what you want? It is tradition, after all.”

That thought actually made James pause. “No I – I hadn’t really thought about it yet.”

“Well, start thinking about it then,” Jeremy snorted, ruffling James’ hair as he headed for the en suite, laughing when this earned the expected indignant growls over the soot.

In the end they climbed into the shower together. Who actually dragged who was unclear but by that point Jeremy was really too tired to manage on his own and James was covered in enough soot himself that one could even argue the move was practical – well, mostly practical. Half a bottle of shower gel, two small hotel bars of soap and a seemingly endless amount of scrubbing later – not to mention the ritual sacrifice of nearly every towel and flannel in both hotel rooms and a truly obscene amount of hot water besides – a clean Jeremy Clarkson emerged from the shower feeling somewhat more human.

 

*** * * * ***

As James predicted, food revived Jeremy further, both of them really. The prospect of facing a crowded restaurant with a high potential for autograph seekers and drunken wedding guests wandering trough was decidedly unappealing. Instead they tucked into perfectly prepared steaks in the room over shared bottles of wine and an order of mussels in a broth so flavorful that they sucked the briny deliciousness from the shells with relish, even though Hammond wasn’t around to be annoyed by it.

And, speak of the devilish grinned Hamster, his horrendous luck certainly appeared to be holding steady today. Around the time they’d expected Richard to ring, Andy called up instead to let them know that Richard’s mechanical issues were perfectly timed for the storm they’d flirted with off and on all day to catch up. Now he was stuck negotiating heavier traffic in the wet and would easily be another hour or so. This, and apparently the crew assigned to him were damn near falling out of the follow car in laughter listening to his audio. Apparently the short bloke off _Top Gear_ had decided he was some sort of super hero.

“Great, little pikey’s finally actually cracked and regressed all the way back to childhood,” Jeremy chuckled. “It was only a matter of time.” Then, on noticing James was still bustling around the room. “What _are_ you looking for, Slow? You’d better not be organizing things or I swear, winner or not, I shall finish the rest of this wine without you.”

But James wasn’t organizing things, well, not much anyway. He’d been planning to work on Jeremy’s back since he saw the man slump to the barroom floor several hours ago and, if Hammond was still going to be awhile, then all he needed was a bottle of lotion or something. At first Jeremy protested this plan on the grounds that the entire point of winning was getting the losers to take care of _you_ , but his protests were halfhearted at best even before James pointed out that he was still barely walking. Jeremy didn’t know if it came from being such a pedant or from all the time he spent building things, but James had great hands. Amazing hands, even. Soon Jeremy stopped complaining and found himself mumbling something sheepish about massage oil in his bag.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that. _You_ have _what_ in your bag?” James asked wryly once he stopped laughing. “Is there anything else I should know about in there? Little scented candles? Special knickers, perhaps?”

If anyone else on the team – one Richard Hammond, just to choose an example, completely at random of course – were caught travelling with such a poncy item, Jeremy would have been the first one taking the piss. At volume. And James was nothing if not fair.

“Yes, yes,” Jeremy replied with an air of injured pride. “When I won, I was going to demand that you and Hammond massage every inch of my body and then take turns sucking me off.” He finished in a low growly voice, accompanied by his ever expressive eyebrow waggle.

James just shook his head in amusement. “Good plan, that.”

“Yes.”

“Except for the not winning part…”

“Yeeeees, except for that part,” Jeremy harrumphed in response as he slipped off his jumper and settled onto the bed.

James straddled Jeremy’s hips, rubbing his hands together to warm the oil before he began to knead his back and shoulders, gently at first, then harder, as he slowly worked his way deeper into the knotted muscles.  He loved doing this, running his hands over smooth, much loved skin, finding every tired, aching place with long sensitive fingers and then soothing and relaxing it. For James it felt somewhere in between using his hands to restore order to the chaos of a mangled motorcycle engine and feeling his way through a challenging new piece of music on the piano.

As with so many things in _Top Gear_ and in life, the sexual part of their relationship started with Jeremy and Richard. Once those two decided that becoming three would be even more fun, James was ashamed to admit that it took them the better part of two series before they could persuade him to join them. Even then, joining had been one thing, but relaxing about it quite another. His issues with touch might be presented in a humorous light on the show, but they weren’t exaggerated. The truly exasperating part, for James even more than for anyone else, was that he actually did enjoy touching and being touched. Very much so, in fact. But he was a bit shy, a lot awkward and genuinely prone to a sort of sensory overload if he wasn’t completely comfortable in a given situation – and sharing a bed with two lovers proved to be extraordinary in every sense of the word.

In the beginning, he’d wanted so badly to touch Jeremy and Richard without any awkwardness, run his hands over every inch of their bodies and map out all of the places that made them shiver and moan. But it was too much all at once, and he’d needed this, the familiar parameters of giving a back rub, as an excuse to touch them, to let himself touch them. He’d opened up and relaxed significantly since then, largely due to a surprising amount of patience from the other two. He no longer _needed_ this, but he still enjoyed doing it and genuinely seemed to be helping Jeremy stay in one piece after long days in daft cars.

“So this excellent plan of yours?” James asked later as he attacked an especially stubborn spot with the heel of one hand. “Choosing it didn’t happen to have anything to do with the fact that lying here is about all you’re good for in your current destroyed state, did it?”   

Jeremy’s response started with a grumpy, ‘Shut up, Slow.’ but ended in a series of pornographic moans and growls as James succeeded in loosening the knot and started using those talented fingers to ease the tension around it.

A few minutes later, when Jeremy had regained the power of coherent speech, he remembered the unanswered question still lingering between them. “So what do _you_ want James?”

“I don’t – I mean, it’s not like I planned on winning and thought this through in advance.” Underneath him, Jeremy shook with laughter. “Anyway, let’s see how you – well and Hammond too really – let’s see how you’re both feeling, shall we?

 

*** * * * ***

When the familiar knock came sometime later, Jeremy was still lying on the bed, face down in a blissed out, boneless sprawl while James relaxed next to him with a book. James opened the door to find a very different Richard Hammond from the cocky, excited Hamster he last passed at a petrol station many, many miles back. This Richard was a wet, bedraggled creature who looked as if he was trying to cradle both hands at once.

“Bloody Nora, man. That bad?” He asked, stepping aside to let Richard in.

“No, not bad at all. S’great in fact,” Richard said sourly, stripping off his leather jacket with stiff, fumbling fingers and tossing it carelessly aside as he stumbled into the hotel room. “Brilliant ride. Except for the clogged carburetor. The brake being on the wrong bloody side. The fantastic weather. Oh, and the pair of smug wankers I get for a consolation prize.” And with a smile that might have been cheeky if it weren’t for all the wincing, he eased himself gingerly into the same chair Jeremy had collapsed into earlier.

“Is that the Black Shadow I hear?” Even with his face still muffled against the pillows, the merry smirk in Jeremy’s voice rang out loud and clear.

“Why yes it is,” James said, eyes twinkling with mischief. “What do you know? It’s Saturday night and the continuing adventures of the Black Shadow continue.”

Richard groaned and dropped his head in exaggerated defeat. “Ugh. Told you about that did they?”

“Oh yes they did.” Jeremy was downright gleeful as he heaved himself over on the bed so he could see them both. 

Richard grumbled to himself as he finally bent over to attempt the removal of his boots. Bloody fantastic all around. He was cold, wet and stiff and it sounded like he knew a couple of cameramen who could use a good thumping. Like a bunch of gossipy old birds they were. The boot stubbornly refused to budge and he flopped back in the chair with a defeated air. Of course, getting sufficiently worked up over the mockery to take it out on loose lipped crew members was pointless because it would only provide everyone with easy fodder for more mockery. Ah, the circle of _Top Gear_ life.

“Well the Black Shadow is getting too old for this shit,” he grumped.

“Must be bad if the Black Shadow is quoting American action movies,” James teased.

Richard turned from Jeremy to James with an annoyed scowl that quickly softened into a grateful smile as James bent to help him tug off his boots.

“S’horrible way to keep a secret identity, mate,” Jeremy snorted derisively from the bed. “Everyone will know you’re really Richard Hammond.”

Richard flashed two fingers at him. “Oh you two are hilarious tonight, you are.”

But as he stretched his feet, now successfully freed from the armored leather that had confined them for the last – Bloody hell, had it really been 12 hours? – with James’ assistance, he found it surprisingly difficult to stay upset. Naturally Jeremy remedied this problem a few seconds later.

“Besides, you’re not too old Richard. The Black Shadow just needs to find a more comfortable ride…one that allows him to reach the pedals.” Jeremy had been far too exhausted – and far too much in second place – to indulge in proper post-race piss taking down in the bar, but he was feeling much better now on all counts.

Richard glared at Jeremy, which only served to broaden the man’s grin, so he rounded on a snickering James instead. “Don’t say it James. Don’t you even say it.” He’d meant it to sound like a warning, but he was so tired that he knew it came out more like pleading.

“Wasn’t going to.” And, really, he wasn’t, because that’s the thing with a proper ‘I told you so’ between good friends – there’s seldom a need to actually say it.

Richard shook his head miserably. “S’alright. I already spent the last four hours thinking it and the last two hours muttering it under my breath. Should’ve let you have the Shadow. Fucker just about broke me.”

James chuckled warmly and handed Richard a beer. “That’s quite alright, Hammond. That car is glorious and I’d say things turned out just fine for me.”

“Oh?” Richard asked, brightening considerably as he leaned over to pop the top off the bottle against the desk’s conveniently shaped drawer handle.

“Didn’t they tell you?” James’ blue eyes danced with mirth.

Richard shook his head looking from one co-presenter to the other for an explanation. It sounded like James was saying…but, no. That just wasn’t possible. 

“Yes, yes,” Jeremy rumbled his confirmation. “The smug bastard actually won something. There’ll be no living with him now,” he finished, ending with a very put upon sounding sigh.

Richard’s brown eyes went wide with surprise as he laughed so hard that he sputtered his beer. “Hang on a minute. So James won?” James and Jeremy both nodded, James now laughing almost as much as Richard. “Well done, Slow.” he raised his bottle in James’ direction before turning to a pouting Jeremy. “Which means that, for once, I shouldn’t have to put up with you taking the piss and reliving everything in excruciating detail all night long.”

“Yes well, you still came in so far in last that you’ve probably lost the next race too,” Jeremy grumbled.

“No, no, no. You don’t get to do that now,” Richard admonished gleefully, ending with one of his mad sounding giggles. “This is fantastic. It’s almost worth losing for. Okay, nothing’s worth losing, but this is some consolation,” he conceded as if in response to someone else’s comment, before turning to cut Jeremy off again with a pointed finger and another giggle. “No, shut it Clarkson. You don’t get to lord it over everyone tonight. That’s for James to do.”

Jeremy burst out laughing at the very thought of James doing any such thing and Richard soon followed.

“Yeah, but he won’t,” Jeremy managed before collapsing back against the pillows, his entire body shaking with laughter.

“Hang on a minute,” James interrupted, trying to sound offended and failing. “I might.”

“Yeah, but he won’t,” Richard agreed in between deep belly laughs.

 

*** * * * ***

Eventually they divested Richard of his wet leathers and sent his bruised and freezing arse staggering off to the shower in Jeremy’s room while they retrieved his bag and some dry towels from his room across the hall. Well, James did at any rate. Despite numerous protests to the contrary and Jeremy’s loud insistence that it was really just another manifestation of his allergy to manual labor, the man was clearly too knackered to move, a fact which did not go unnoticed by Richard. Or uncommented upon.

When Richard emerged from the shower warm and steaming, he was feeling more his usual self, sufficiently so that he even managed an enticing little hip wiggle as he pulled on soft tartan pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. The wince of pain afterwards as both hands flew to massage his aching knees may have ultimately ruined the effect though, a bit. All was forgotten, however, when he noticed the delicious aroma about the room and saw the plate of sandwiches.

“How did – Downstairs they said the kitchen’s closed.” He managed before falling on the food like a starving man who hadn’t stopped for a bite to eat all day which, in this case, wasn’t just an exaggeration for effect.

“Oh it was no problem at all,” Jeremy reassured him. “We just told the nice lady at the front desk that Richard Hammond is hungry. Anything for the housewives’ favorite, she said.”

Richard sputtered indignantly, shocked and annoyed in equal parts, sufficiently so that he actually put the sandwich down. “Bastard! You didn’t? Please tell me you didn’t tell her that.”

Naturally, the moment he finished his rant but not one second before, Richard noticed that they were both struggling not to burst out laughing, a struggle they promptly lost.

“No, we didn’t,” James barely managed in between loud honking laughs. Which was better than Jeremy who was stuck alternating between belly laughs that shook his entire body and exclamations of ‘Oh fuck.’ and ‘The look on your face’.

Then, a few minutes later when he could finally breathe again, “the hotel has been very accommodating of us all day. Andy made sure they set some dinner aside for you and your follow crew. Hell, after the day you two miserable pillocks have had, they said we don’t even have to check out until nearly dinner tomorrow.”

A plate full of food and several drinks later, Richard had mostly forgiven them. Complete forgiveness came swiftly after he finally stopped protesting that he was fine and sat on the bed to let James work on his legs and feet.

“Massage oil?” He asked with an eyebrow raised so high it was making a break for his hairline.

“Yes,” James explained, eyes merry and teasing. “Jezza had big plans for his victory celebration. Apparently we were going to massage him from head to foot and take turns sucking him off.”

Richard giggled. “Yeah, how’s that working for you, mate?” He teased Jeremy before turning back to James. “What, because all he’d be up for is just lying there?”

“Oh, great minds, Hammond. Great minds.” James laughed as Jeremy’s face assumed the full Clarkson pout.

“Great pair of cocks maybe,” he muttered as he moved from his perch to join them on the end of the bed and began to work on Hammond’s shoulders.

“Hey! I’m not completely useless.” He complained when Richard looked surprised.

“So I know what Jezza was going to ask for,” Richard said in between pornographic moans of appreciation, chuckling all over again at the reminder that Jeremy didn’t win. “What did you decide, James?”

“I – I haven’t decided yet,” James answered, without pausing in his ministrations.

Then, noticing the quick look of concern that flew from Richard’s eyes to Jeremy’s, neither one of them exactly a master of subtlety, he added, laughing. “Right. Because you two make a _fantastic_ prize tonight. The one can’t move at all and the other’s moving like he’s 85. I say we drink – a _lot_ more – get some sleep and then in the morning we can see if I’m dealing with _Top Gear_ presenters or _Casualty_ patients, hmmm?”

James’ argument was logical and his words were the truth, just nowhere near the truth in its entirety. Usually, when the three of them had sex, everything was very mutual, with no one person as the focus or, when they did do that, it was Richard or, more often, Jeremy in the middle, allowing James the ability to pull away or hold back from time to time without explaining himself. While the thought of being at the center of both Jeremy and Richard’s undivided attentions had provided him with no small amount of wank fodder over the years, now that he was faced with the actual prospect, he wasn’t entirely certain he could do it. Too much sensory overload and he didn’t think he could really let himself go like that.

Of course, it wasn’t as if there were rules. But he couldn’t figure out how to say, ‘Chaps, could we maybe just do the same things we usually do, because there is no way I’m not going to be awkward about this?’ without being, well, awkward. Perhaps in the morning they could just wake up and have the same sort of deliciously lazy morning sex they frequently indulged in when away on a shoot. Their private race wagers certainly fired competitive spirits and added to the fun but, honestly, he couldn’t think of any better prize than just being with them.

 

*** * * * ***

Morning dawned, then grew later at the Balmoral hotel and, unusually, Jeremy was the first to revive. Sitting up and stretching, at first he felt almost disoriented and it wasn’t the usual ‘Which hotel am I in again, what language do I try to order coffee in, and why on earth did I think it was a good idea to drink all of that last night?’ No, this was something entirely different. What were these strange sensations? Could it actually be? Why, yes. He felt well rested, for the first time in weeks, and that was in fact actual space in his spine. Sure his legs were still a bit sore, but frankly that was a more than fair price to pay.

Smiling, he looked over at the still sleeping men beside him. James dead to the world, looking more relaxed in sleep than ever in life, rested on one side so that he just touched both of them, one leg against Jeremy’s, a hand on Richard’s hip. Richard, on the other hand, even dreamed actively, and sprawled on his stomach, rumpled head wedged into the space between two pillows and the sheets a crumpled mess about his legs.

They were difficult these two. Opinionated as anything, one prone to fits of awkward and moody, the other fits of fighty and moody, they were capable of driving him further round the bend than anyone, and frequently did. And, probably largely because of that, he loved them both so fiercely that, although he would almost never say it, at times like this it felt like a tangible thing ready to burst forth from his chest.

Richard woke not long after, his large, still sleepy brown eyes and tousled hair making him look much more like a small boy than a man just a few months shy of 40. Typical Richard, he slouched off to the en suite barely awake, fuzzy brained and with a pronounced air of grumpiness about him, only to return a short while later with clean teeth, a cheerful smile and more of the usual bounce to his step, even if his gait was also still a bit stiff this morning.

He started making coffee as Jeremy groaned praise from the bed he had yet to vacate. No matter how rested he felt, coffee, any coffee, even hotel room coffee, was a necessary start to the day and this hotel’s coffee was probably better than most. Richard poured two cups and held up one of Jeremy’s prescription bottles in an obvious question.

“No thanks, Richard,” Jeremy said and then, in response to the raised eyebrow, “I’m doing surprisingly well this morning actually. Magic hands.” He gestured at the still sleeping James. “Of course, when you two get finished with me later…” his words trailed off as he punctuated the unspoken part of the sentence with a lascivious grin.

Richard shook his head and laughed, privately resolving to watch James’ technique closely next time. Probably this was something he could learn to replicate and if it helped Jeremy this much, well, maybe between the two of them they could help keep the old bugger and his knackered back and his dicky hip in Lambos and Fezzas until a ripe old Enzo Ferrari age. He’d love to nag Jeremy to go back to the doctor, and for more than just a prescription this time. But they were too alike in many ways and that would go over about as well as if either one of them had actively tried to talk him out of riding that damned Vincent.

“Right. About that,” he said instead. “You do know he’s not really going to ask for anything don’t you? And, if we press, this is just going to get awkward?”

James stirred in his sleep as if aware they were talking about him and Jeremy smiled down at him with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. “Yeeeees. I had hoped this unexpected little development would finally inspire him to – I mean, at this point isn’t it verging on impolite not to ask for something…”

Richard chuckled at the thought of that particular conundrum. “Whatever you do, please don’t point that out to him. He might actually explode.”

Two men trying to laugh uproariously in a quiet and unobtrusive fashion truly was a sight to behold. Jeremy managed to muffle his volume, but still shook the bed with his stifled belly laughs.

“Yes, quite.” he finally managed, wiping one large hand over his streaming eyes and down his face. “At any rate, apparently I’ve underestimated the tenacity of this particular issue.”

Richard hesitated a moment before answering. “I’m starting to think I might understand…a bit.”

“Well, Richard, some days I think that makes one of the three of us.” But he didn’t say it unkindly.

Jeremy had given up on trying to understand the why of James years ago, right about the time he realized it just plain didn't matter. Somehow, his natural mix of impatiently busting out the hammers, punctuated with a surprising amount of patience seemed to work. They got on. He amused James much of the time and didn't piss him off irreparably the rest of the time, and that was more than he could say for most people – more, in truth, than he could be arsed to attempt for most people.

“Anyway,” Jeremy finished with a smirk and a twinkle in his eye. “It will all be fine. Hot sex for all and Slow will get his reward. _I_ have a cunning plan!”

Richard couldn’t help but laugh. “Right. A cunning plan. Should I clear the room of flammable objects? Maybe any aerosol cans, hmmm? Other things that might explode?” He teased, ticking off several of the items on the “In Case of Cunning Clarkson Plan” checklist he and James had compiled to pass the time on the train during one of their last epic races. Richard had personally passed it around to Andy and all of the crew, naturally, but doubted Jeremy had seen it…hoped Jeremy hadn’t seen it.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Jeremy pouted, flashing two fingers in Richard’s direction. “It will be fine. I think you and I are both sufficiently fluent in Slow these days to figure it out.”

 

*** * * * ***

James gradually drifted awake as he became increasingly aware of a rather pleasurable sensation. He didn’t normally remember much about his dreams, but today he had a vague sense that last night’s had been warm and pleasant and somehow that feeling wasn’t just lingering on the edge of his consciousness in the usual way, but steadily growing more tangible. Lying on his back, not quite fully alert, and not entirely sure he wanted to be if it meant leaving this sensation behind, he stretched experimentally, and met resistance. Surprised, he stiffened up slightly and opened his eyes to find Jeremy and Richard sitting on the bed to either side of him, each massaging one of his arms.

That was – Oh! – that was very nice indeed. He relaxed back against the pillows, lips spreading into a calm, lazy smile and hummed his appreciation.  

Jeremy’s voice was an amused sounding rumble to his right, still somewhat thick and rough with sleep.  “Good morning, Slow. Nice of you to join us.”

“Yes, good morning James,” Richard chuckled to his left, sounding much more awake.

Richard wasn’t exactly a morning person either, but he was definitely more of one than Jeremy – usually almost anyone was more of a morning person than Jeremy.

“Hullo,” James drawled in reply, his still sleepy brain unable to think of anything more eloquent to say.

He opened his eyes wider, even more awake now, when both of them started laughing in response. Grinned and shook his head as Jeremy needled him with his well-practiced May ‘Hello’ impression. But the man didn’t allow the mockery to halt his fingers for one moment, so it felt uncharitable to complain.

“But what...?” James pulled away from them just enough to sit up, blinking in pleased confusion. “Not that I’m complaining _at all_ , but why?”

Richard moved to help him adjust some of the pillows into a comfortable makeshift backrest. “Just returning the favor from last night,” he said innocently.

Jeremy started tugging at his t-shirt. “Come on. Shirt off, May. So we can work on your shoulders.”

James could barely believe his good fortune, but this didn’t feel like a wind up, even if his co-presenters both had more than a bit of devilish about their morning smiles. Deciding that the reward was more than worth the risk, he quickly complied, earning jokes from the other two as, even in his haste, his still folded his well-worn Hawker Hurricane t-shirt and set in on the nightstand.

Between the two of them, Richard and Jeremy worked over his shoulders, and down his back, Richard’s fingers more deft, Jeremy’s hands large and strong. Between the sheer pleasure of their ministrations and the slightly unreal feeling leftover from having been asleep not twenty minutes ago, James felt like he was floating. Then Jeremy was behind him, huge hands cradling his skull, thumbs pressing in tight circles at the muscle bundles at the base, releasing tension, while Richard worked on the tops of his shoulders from the front.

“Oh, chaps, that feels…”  James groaned happily. “I take back half of the awful things I’ve said about you this week.”

“Only half, Slow?” Jeremy asked smugly as he got the muscles to relax a little further.

“Perhaps it is more like two-thirds,” James conceded, trying to stifle an outright moan.

By the time they started moving back down his arms, James was sliding back down the pillows to lie flat, too relaxed and boneless to remain upright any longer. They each worked down one arm until, eventually, attentive fingers moved – sigh – along the tired muscles of his wrists and then – Oh bliss! Oh heaven! – his hands, hands which had always been so sensitive and were now quite stiff and fatigued from last night’s marathon massage activities. No longer able to stifle himself, James began moaning softly.

“God, James,” Richard chuckled in pleasant surprise at the noise. He looked across his lover’s relaxed form and caught Jeremy’s eye. “Jez, do you ever remember him being this vocal?”

It was true. James was hardly silent in bed, but when he wasn’t speaking filthy, glorious things into his lovers’ ears in _that_ voice, he was more inclined to emit soft sighs and the occasional whimper or low moan than anything louder or, well, this continuous. Oh, the man was certainly appreciative of their attentions, and the changes in his face as he neared his climax were gorgeous to behold. He just usually wasn’t…well…usually wasn’t much like this.

Instead of answering, Jeremy just smiled smugly across the bed, eyes sparkling with mischief, before taking James’ index finger into his mouth and beginning a long hard suck as he continued to work the wrist with his thumbs.

James’ blue eyes went wide in surprise before fluttering shut as the man moaned long and low.

“Really? You’re serious?” Richard raised a skeptical eyebrow but kept on massaging.

In response, Jeremy smiled again, turning up the corners of his mouth in an even broader grin that showed his teeth, which he then dragged up James’ finger on the next suck, with just the right amount of pressure if the sounds coming from their long haired co-presenter were any indication.

Richard shook his head in bemused defeat. “Well, all right then.” Not one to be outdone, he pressed a kiss to the inside of James’ wrist and slowly licked up his palm as Jeremy moved on to the next finger.

James’ reaction was astonishing, with a cry of, “Oh. I…Jez. Rich– Fuck!” as he practically bucked off the bed.

Jeremy’s look was very much on the ‘told you so’ end of his highly developed smug spectrum, but Richard was far too pleased with this brilliant discovery to notice or care. He always knew James had sensitive hands but…this could be a _lot_ of fun! With an evil little grin of his own, Richard attended to James’ hand and wrist with fingers, lips, teeth and tongue with enthusiasm as, on the other side, Jeremy continued to do the same. Richard knew that Jeremy and James got up to their own fun when he wasn't around – of course they did, as did any pair of them when away without the third – it just hadn’t occurred to him that what specifically the two old blokes got up to was so worth knowing. He’d have to be more inquisitive in the future.

Caught between them, James started to come apart. Hot mouths all over his hands and wrists. Licking, sucking. Kissing, biting. And it was just so, nghhh. So deliciously maddening he couldn’t even think. But he was starting to grow uncomfortable with the amount of noise he was making – James never had been comfortable being the center of attention for very long. He struggled to cool down a bit, regain some of his usual control, but Jeremy and Richard were having none of it. Clearly this was a competition now.

Jeremy slid down to lay pressing all along the line of his body. Lightly grazing the inside of James’ wrist with his teeth, he ran his other hand down his chest toward his hip. Paused to pinch a nipple, rake short nails down his ribs, stroke a thumb across the curve of his belly, line of his hip.

Long fingers slipped into the damp flies of his boxers and Jeremy began to run them over his straining cock. James whimpered and bucked his hips in response as the fingers grew more eager. With an appreciative laugh, Richard slid to lie on his side as well and bent one leg to lock with James’, effectively pinning him in place. Abandoning James’ arm, Richard turned his attention to his chest, sucking and biting at the hard nipple.

And, oh. Good. So fucking good. Too much. TooGoodTooMuchSoGood.

“Problems, James?” Jeremy’s voice was warm with affection, the question equal parts tease and concern.

“No. Just…ungh…” StopPleaseDon’tStop. He whimpered again, only slightly in frustration.

“Do you want us to stop?” Richard asked, the same hint of both tease and honest question in his voice.

Yes. But not really. Maybe? But. No, actually. No, not at all.

Decision made, James practically growled, “Don’t you bloody dare,” earning chuckles from both sides.

“Good man,” Jeremy murmured near his ear, voice that low rumble that never failed to do pleasant things to James’ insides. “God I love hearing you like this.”

With that Jeremy abandoned James’ hand in favor of his neck, mouthing his way up the line of his throat, kissing and nibbling at the sensitive spot just below his ear. Control and quiet were already completely out of the question when James felt Richard move, pulling his boxers off and parting his legs to lie between, but when he started teasing and nipping his way up the inside of one thigh, James began, quite uncharacteristically, to beg.

“Oh. God, yes. Richard. Your mouth. Please.”

“Well,” Richard answered playfully. “Since you asked…”

Richard ran the tip of his tongue up the length of James’ cock, savoring the moans this produced before taking all of him deep in his mouth with one swallow, one of the best tricks in his considerable arsenal, and beginning a long, slow suck. Jeremy leaned over and swallowed what were, by now, loud moans, by pressing his lips to James’, the kiss almost impossibly erotic for being the first one they’d exchanged since the encounter began.

James went incoherent. Jeremy’s mouth on his, lips soft but demanding, one hand fisted in his hair pulling just right. Richard’s hot mouth around his cock, tongue doing something that defied description. And it was all…so…

When James came, he saw stars.

 

*** * * * ***

James floated, mind and body lost in a haze of pleasure, a complete and utter sensory overload that for once he didn’t mind in the slightest. He was dimly aware of trusted hands holding him, stroking him through the come down. Of Jeremy kissing the top of his head, an unexpected bit of sweetness that really shouldn’t surprise. Of both of them laughing at his dazed expression.

A small part of his brain felt strongly that he should protest this laughter in some way, come up with some sort of witty retort. Another, somewhat larger part of his brain felt that heartfelt thanks were more in order. Within the context of _Top Gear_ , these sentiments were not as mutually exclusive as they might initially appear. But ultimately he was too far gone – fantastically, spectacularly gone – to act on these vague thoughts or any others.

His eventual return to reality was a deliciously languid one. Slowly James realized that Jeremy and Richard were no longer near him and that the bed was moving again. Then came the sounds, much loved voices rising and falling in passion, gorgeous sounds he’d always felt rivaled some of his favorite pieces of music, coaxing him into full awareness. Jeremy’s voice, deep like the rich rumblings of an upright bass, Richard’s not as low, not as deep, but every bit as enticing, more of a jazz clarinet that sometimes played in the upper registers, especially at times like this.

Slowly, lazily, James opened his eyes, rolling over on his side to take in the view, and what a view it was. Jeremy sat, back propped up and cushioned by several pillows, head thrown back in ecstasy, while Richard faced him, straddling his lap. Richard, all lightly tanned skin and sensual lips, traced lines up the older man’s sensitive throat, holding him close with one hand fisted in unruly greying curls. Jeremy’s dark lashes fluttered against flushed red cheeks and his lips puffed open with each gasp, never quite closing again before the next spike of pleasure took him. Together they rocked slowly against one another in a rhythm far more coordinated than anything they could have accomplished in a coherent attempt.

So entrancing was the sight that it took James a moment – several minutes, longer? – to notice Jeremy’s large hand wrapped around both of their dripping cocks, pulling them off together in a long, steady wank, a twist to his wrist on the upstroke that made James’ mouth water. If he hadn’t just had one of the strongest orgasms of his life, he would have been hard and panting from the sight alone.

God but he wanted to touch them, to help, mouth at the back of Richard’s neck in that sensitive spot where it met the muscle of his shoulder, reach around to pinch and tease at Jeremy’s nipples, really he did. In the end though, he just couldn’t and this time it had nothing to do with awkwardness. James couldn't remember ever feeling so blissed out in his entire life, his body boneless and lazy, failing to respond to any of his distracted commands. Happily, with a dopey post coital grin plastered across his face, he settled back to watch the show.

Gradually they sped up the rhythm, moaning louder now, those same musical sounds James loved. Richard rolled his hips, undulated his strong back, unable to keep still for a moment under most circumstances, certainly not here. Jeremy pumped his fist harder, muscles that had never been anything one might describe as defined now standing out in his arm with the effort, emphasizing smooth, pale skin and freckles James loved to trace patterns between with his tongue.

The sounds, the sight of this! Unable to help himself and unwilling to even try, James moaned, long and low, the cello in their most unorthodox of jazz trios. Richard was too far gone to notice, but few things ever got by Jeremy. The older man turned his head to look over at James, grey-blue eyes gone dark, slowly coming back into focus. Their eyes locked together briefly and James smiled happily, sated and content. Jeremy flashed him the dirtiest grin in return, then his eyes slammed shut as he threw his head back and came, hard, the spasms and his now stuttering rhythm taking Richard right along with him.

 

*** * * * ***

Sometime later, they lay together in the big soft bed, mostly coherent now, minimally cleaned up, thoroughly sated and happy. Jeremy sprawled in the middle this time. Richard draped partially over his chest on the left, huge brown eyes at half mast, head perfectly positioned for soft, lazy kisses. James propped up on one shoulder to his right, looking down at him with a relaxed smile, a little shy, a lot pleased. Their bodies just barely avoided touching, but James kept stroking at Jeremy’s chest, his thigh, and showed no inclination of shrugging off the hand with which Jeremy rubbed slow, languid circles into his back.

They were arguing, a bit. Well, they _were_ all awake and not actively engaged in sex. Clearly, sticky, sweat stained specimens that they were, they needed to shower at some point soon, and all three of them were not going to fit in one shower, no matter how many different positional scenarios Jeremy tried to suggest. And at this point breakfast – lunch, perhaps? – would not go amiss, but no one wanted to move even if it was just over to the phone to order room service.

Finally laughter drowned out the actual arguing and playful wrestling put a halt to any talking until all three were gasping for air in a loosely draped pile, the discussion temporarily tabled.

“So, winning then,” James said after a while. “I think I’m starting to see the appeal.”

Jeremy leaned down with a grin and kissed him soundly before responding, “Which is such a shame really, because it's never going to happen again.”

“Never?” Richard asked, mildly indignant while James just smiled and shook his head.

“Never,” said Jeremy, as if he were patiently restating well known facts. “Next big race we have, we'll be right back to a nice, long streak of you two servicing me.”

Richard snorted and thumped Jeremy with a pillow before turning to James.

“Right. Well apparently Jezza’s going back to stacking the deck in his favor next race.” Richard continued, ignoring Jeremy’s noises of protest. “Still, even if you don’t win, I suppose we could do this again sometime, James. If you asked nicely.”

“Bloody hell,” Jeremy chimed in before James could respond. “If you just _asked_.”

James just buried his face in Jeremy’s side laughing. Asking still sounded a bit, well, awkward. But perhaps he was starting to see the appeal of that as well.


End file.
